


We must belong somewhere

by badwolfblues



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Post-War, Ron centric!, Ron thinks he notices everything, but i guess that's evident based on the pairings, some of the ships listed do not end up together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-22 01:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7412905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfblues/pseuds/badwolfblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time is measured in days since the war, and the kids try to make sense of their new lives. A story about rebuilding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three days - two weeks

Three days after the war, it was announced that Harry, Hermione, and Ron would move into Grimmauld Place together. Molly cried, Hermione’s parents couldn’t remember who she was, and Harry couldn’t face the empty house alone. They had each separately, silently considered their choices. The Burrow was too crowded and full of grief, Hogwarts too destroyed, and the inns full of the newly homeless victims of war.

Grimmauld Place was too dirty, full of bad memories, and Kreacher was there, but it was the best they had. They found they didn’t have to discuss this at length.

Four days later, Ron watched as Harry attacked the house with the mania of newfound freedom and a too-full head. He sat with Hermione on one of the many faded sofas in the house, and watched as cobwebs were cleared and ugly rugs vanished. “He needed a project,” Hermione murmured when Ron raised his eyebrows the second time Harry walked by, this time holding an axe.

“What do you think he’s going to do with that?” Ron whispered back. A crash sounded from the kitchen and Hermione jumped up, accidentally kneeing Ron in her haste. In the kitchen, they watched as Harry swung the axe into the long oak table that used to hold Order meetings, family breakfasts, Sirius…

He swung, ineffectually at first, until he got the right movement down. He was either ignorant of his audience or simply uncaring. Hermione’s hand squeezed Ron’s arm. Ron twitched into action when he realized tears were forming behind Harry’s glasses. In two strides, Ron flung open a drawer and was able to transfigure a spatula into a hefty axe. Harry looked up at him, finally, and the image of his manic smile would stay with Ron for a while.

The silent exchange confirmed what Ron knew: that Harry needed to destroy something, and that he needed Ron’s help. Hermione stood there, hand over her mouth nervously, and the boys chopped the antique table into firewood. They gouged the floor occasionally and Ron’s spatula-axe gave him splinters.

The kitchen was a mess when they were done, and so were they, panting and sweating. Ron toed at one of the axe marks on the floor. “Guess we’ll need a rug for in here. Put that on the list, Hermione.”

“The list?” she asked weakly, but her head jerked towards Harry when he made a pitiful little laugh. Ron looked too, but Hermione was always quicker to understand. She rushed over to him and helped him to sit down, carefully placing the axe on the counter. Before Ron knew what was happening, Harry was crying into Hermione’s voluminous hair.

A week into being roommates, they camped out together in the sitting room adjacent to the kitchen, like the old days.

Hermione held both of their hands until she drifted off between them.

 

When Ron awoke the next morning, the wood was stacked neatly, coffee was brewing, and Hermione was leaning against the kitchen counter, writing a list.

 _Paint (lots)_  
_Kitchen rug_  
_Uncle Lou’s Disposal Bags_  
_Work gloves_

Another list above read:

 _Paint – choose bedrooms and colors_  
_Decide which furniture to keep_  
_Look into magical artifact disposal – Borgin/Burkes?_

She smiled at him prettily when she realized he was reading over her shoulder, distracting him from finishing the list. Harry’s snoring sounded from the sitting room.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use magic for some of these things?” he asked, then cleared his throat when it came out a little gruff.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to vanish the table last night?” she asked. Ron thought about that for a moment. Easier, yes. But not nearly as satisfying. “Just like I could easily repair the mess you made of this floor, but I won’t. This is his Project.”

“I suppose ours now, too?”

Back in their bedroom later that night, Ron confided that he was tired. He didn’t have the mania that Harry had, didn’t have the energy, not after everything. Some days he wanted to sleep for hours. Some days he did. Hermione smoothed his hair back from his forehead, clucking at it in that way she had when it needed a cut, and listened patiently. She nodded along, told him he didn’t have to do anything, that they’d all done enough for a lifetime, really. He didn’t have to help.

Which of course just made Ron want to help more.

He was a lot clumsier with most of the tasks that Harry and Hermione could manage without a wand. He was relegated most days to running errands, fetching whatever Harry decided they needed, making sandwiches with a cranky Kreacher. Hermione was quite fetching in her work clothes. The little cut-off shorts and work gloves and hair on a giant knot on the top of her head was a new look for her, and Ron almost cut himself while slicing apples when he realized how much bending and stretching (and sweating) was involved in using those muggle paint rollers.

Day by day, they defeated the grim, magical, dreary place, and avoided everything else. Ron had taken to wearing the cloak if he had to run an errand to Diagon. It was easier that way. The first time he had gone into town without it, some shop owner or other apparently called everyone they knew. Ron fended off questions and quick-quote quills, grumbling about the attention when even a year ago he would have soaked it up. He noticed the irony. He was getting better at noticing things, these days.

Molly firecalled Grimmauld Place that night to complain that she hadn’t seen them in too long. It was two weeks since the war and probably three days since he’d popped by for lunch, but he felt guilty anyway. He supposed she’d heard that he’d been in town that day. Harry went silent when Ron mentioned the three of them going for dinner, vigorously cleaning a window that probably hadn’t been cleaned in decades.

Miraculously, though, Harry was cleaned and dressed and ready to go when Hermione joined Ron at the floo. Ron was proud. Maybe his project was helping.

Dinner was startlingly typical, all things considered. It was a bit gloomy, but George was still at work, and the spectre of Fred was a little easier to ignore this way. Ron closed his eyes for a minute against that traitor thought. There was a bit of bickering. Ron needed to cut his hair, apparently. Ginny sat as far away from Harry as possible, obviously trying to make a point. Hermione was a bit too effusive about the quality of the potatoes.

It was comforting to Ron, but it also didn’t feel true.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling, tried to put his finger on _why_ , and tried not to notice the foot of space between his body and Hermione’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in 2010, wanting to explore an alternate epilogue of sorts that takes place right after the war. It felt a little too neat and tidy to believe that Ron and Hermione got married and Harry and Ginny got married and everything was perfect. I love my original version of the story, but I’d like to think I’ve matured as a writer and wanted to flesh it out into a multi-chapter story as a way of flexing my writing muscles. Hope you enjoy!


	2. Three weeks - One month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone new moves in, and Ron gets some answers.

As a teenager, of course Ron had always loved sleeping in when he could get away with it. When Friday classes didn’t start until ten, or when his mum was too busy making breakfast for a dozen people to tell him to get out of bed for the fifth time on a lazy summer Sunday, he would burrow into the covers and drift back to sleep with the ease of the free-spirited.

Ron never had much trouble sleeping until Harry left Privet Drive for the last time. Anxiety, frustration, and fear kept him up many nights until the wedding. And then they were camping, and a whole other set of problems kept him up. 

Now that he’d slept off the pain and weariness of the battle, sleep was still a struggle. He’d wake early- before the sun, sometimes- and lay there, wondering if he could go back to sleep or if he should just get on with his day. Three weeks after the war, uncertainty was busying his mind as he stared at the ceiling, watching the room grow a bit brighter as the sun rose. Hermione slept beside him, snoring lightly. Crookshanks encroached on Ron’s side of the bed, always too warm for comfort. 

At the same time that sleep eluded him, he was hesitant to get out of bed at all. What was the point? Harry’s house project was wearing on him. He wondered if he needed his own project. Something to stop the constant drudgery of bed-ridden apathy mixed in with bouts of intense grief for his brother and all the others lost in the war. 

This morning, however, he didn’t have long to feel sorry for himself for all of his free time and time free of Dark Lords. Just as he was rolling over, thinking about attempting a cuddle with Hermione again (she usually kicked him away when she slept. She was a little nicer when she was awake, at least), the front door slammed. 

Hermione gasped and gracefully rolled off of the bed, grabbing her wand and rushing to the door. She had grabbed her dressing gown and was in the hall before Ron’s reflexes caught up. 

Harry got there first, but the shrieking voice in the entry both relaxed and alarmed them. They stopped together on the stairs, just close enough to see Ginny waving a piece of parchment at Harry.

“What the bloody hell is this?!” she demanded, shaking it in his face. “This is some cowardly bullshit, Harry. I waited for you. I stayed safe. I did what you wanted even though I thought you were a bloody idiot most of the time. And-“

Ron took Hermione by the hand and slowly backed them away from this scene. Harry’s raised voice was next, but a few shut doors managed to drown out most of the details. 

Back in their ensuite, Hermione spit her toothpaste out. “Did he really try to break up with her via owl?”

Ron rinsed his own mouth out. “I can’t say I blame him, after that display. He was probably hoping to avoid just that.”

She looked annoyed, but leaned her hip against the counter. “Did you know he was going to do that?”

“The deepest thing Harry’s told me this week is that he thinks the color for the entry is wrong.”

“Seriously? We tried like five different samples!” she brushed her hair roughly, but seemed amused. Something about this moment struck Ron as comforting. Chatting with his- his girlfriend?- in the bathroom, getting ready for the day, the early morning sun shining through the tiny windows. He smirked at her and found comfort in the normalcy instead of the itching he usually felt, the uncertain discomfort. He gently grasped her brush and finished working out the tangle she’d been stuck on. She smiled gently. Slowly, he set the brush down and leaned into her space, drawn to her. 

She let him kiss her for a moment, but then eased him back. “We should see if they’re still at it,” she said, looking everywhere but at him. Ron sighed as she left the room. He was disappointed but not surprised. Hermione had been odd about any kind of physical contact since their first kiss. It had been a great kiss, and he’d been ready to pick things up. Disinterested was probably the best word for Hermione, however. She’d cuddle on the couch and they slept in the same bed, but most of his affection was rebuffed. When he asked, she just said she was still getting over everything and wasn’t really in a “romantic headspace,” whatever that meant. 

Surely some kissing would help brighten the mood around here, right?

He followed her a moment later, taking time to put a shirt on and collect himself. Hermione was walking back up the steps, looking vexed. She shook her head at him but her reaction made him curious enough to see what was going on. 

“Oi!” he shouted instinctively when confronted with the sight of his little sister underneath his best friend on the sofa. It seemed Harry and Ginny agreed with his sentiments about a little bit of kissing. “Get a room, would you?” 

“Merlin, Ron!” Ginny yelled, pushing Harry off of her. They straightened their clothes, looking sheepish, and Ron just closed his eyes and laughed.

“Glad you two sorted things out.”

 

Ginny moved in the next day, joining Harry in the master bedroom that Sirius had once kept Buckbeak in. They painted it together, a nice, deep blue. Their laughter sounded through the house, Ginny exclaiming that the paint in the carpet gave it character, and Harry arguing that the house needed less character, not more. 

Ron noticed Hermione was a bit twitchy, slamming dishes around and upsetting Kreacher. 

“What is it, Hermione?” he asked from his spot at the table, eating the massive sandwich Kreacher had proudly presented a moment ago. “Do you not want Ginny to move in?”

“He could have at least asked us,” Hermione said, now cutting a tomato violently. Ron’s eyebrows shot up- he hadn’t actually expected to be right. 

“It is his house, so…” Ron said. At her glare, he coughed on some turkey and readily agreed. “Well, sure, he could have asked.”

She was silently fuming. Ron hesitantly decided to probe. “Ginny’s not bad to live with, you know. It’ll be okay, there is plenty of room…”

“You’re right.” She turned to look at him, nodding. She salted a tomato slice and popped it into her mouth. He took a huge bite of his sandwich, pleased that she had let him comfort her. “You’re right,” she said again. “Actually, I think I’m going to ask Harry which room I can take for myself.”

“Wait, what?” he asked when he finished chewing, but she had spun out of the room towards the sound of Harry’s voice.

 

It turned out that Hermione still wanted to sleep with him, he found out that night. 

“I just wanted some space to spread out my books and write,” she whispered, arm slung over Ron’s waist over the covers. He idly twirled a bit of her hair. “And I was a little jealous that they were decorating and making their own spaces, you know?”

“You could have explained that,” he said. “I thought you were – like – “ he faltered. “Breaking up with me.” Hermione was silent for an alarming length of time after this admission.

“Are we together?” Hermione said. “Ron, I said I couldn’t really think about romantic stuff right now…”

Ron felt relieved and aggravated all at once. This at least explained the weirdness between them, her standoffish behavior. He was assuming they were … a thing, and she was just cuddling with her friend every night. 

“Then what is this?” he asked, waving to the space between them. “Why would you-“

“Because it is comforting! So I know you’ll still be here in the morning!”

Oh.

That.

His breath caught and his anger faded when he realized she was crying. “Shhh,” he said, pulling her in to his chest. “Ok. I’m sorry. No romance. I’m not leaving, though.”

She nodded wetly against his shoulder. They fell asleep pressed against one another, but Ron hadn’t felt so distant from her since the night he’d made his biggest mistake yet and left the camp behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the kudos/reviews/subscriptions! I'm glad you like it so far. It's looking like I'll be doing smaller chapters, and more of them, instead of the seven big chunks I had planned (considering this is chapter two and major characters are still missing). Thanks for reading!


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